Sugar Plums Dancing In Her Head
by Anachronistic Anglophile
Summary: Hermione cannot wait to go to Hogwarts to finish her 7th year, though Harry and Ron will not join her. Paralleling the ballet 'The Nutcracker', this story is a little AU fantasy featuring a strange Russian composer, Snape's ghost, and Christmas magic.


_DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does._

_ No more am I related in any way to the magnificent work of Tchaikovsky, except that I have numerous times performed in the beautiful ballet, which I now base this story upon. As far as that goes, the plots are not completely parallel to each other--notably, my character of Piotr, who is the 'Nutcracker' figure, does not make his debut so early in the actual ballet as he does in this story--but they share enough similarities that I think it will amuse to you look for them. _

_Also, if you happen to have a copy of The Nutcracker on you (particularly the version by the Kirov Orchestra that you can get cheap on Amazon) it might be nice to listen to the music while reading, because that is how I wrote this. Every chapter title reflects the title of the ballet scene that I wrote to coincide. AKA, this chapter's title is 'Overture', with the description 'Back to Hogwarts' tacked on for clarity._

_Warning: This is, to be quite accurate, an Alternate Universe (AU) story. So please keep this in mind as you read._

**Sugar Plums Dancing In Her Head**

**Chapter 1: Overture, Back to Hogwarts**

Upon a charmed midsummer's evening, Hermione Jean Granger was with her family in France. The annual ritual of leaving London's hustle and bustle was one that had started with Hermione's parents in the days of their courtship, in days where they had no steady jobs to come back to, where they had nothing to live for but each other, where there was nothing to worry about but the present. These days they considered the happiest in their lives, and far too often they found themselves 'forgetting' each other with the tremendous amount of work they both took upon themselves. As many onlookers pessimistically assessed, 'their marriage (wa)s falling apart', but the holiday vacation worked well enough to staple the pair back together temporarily. Perhaps it was with some attempt to weave the golden threads of memory into their contemporary tapestry that they continued with their little girl in tow.

As this story opens, however, Hermione is far from little; she is legally on the verge of 19, and technically a year older, for we find her just a month before her true seventh year at Hogwarts. Though she could not confide in Harry or Ron, both of whom were satisfied with their honorary diplomas awarded by Headmistress McGonagall, Hermione felt the need of adulthood pressing all too firmly on her doorbell, and, in direct reflection of her parents' visits to France every year, she wanted to return to the school.

It was a matter of reliving the 'good old days', without her open acknowledgement of the fact. Hermione lusted after the life of the student, the liberty to enter intellectual conversations with her teachers at any hour, and the pursuit of the happiness of straight Os. This she desired, as much as Harry wanted to make his own reputation based on skill, as much as Ron insisted he wanted to marry her, and generally as much as both boys were eager to get on with their lives.

In any case, let us get back to that charmed midsummer's evening in France, the prelude to the pallid dawn of Hermione Granger's 7th school year at Hogwarts.

The small village of Eze was as quaint as any other on the French Riviera, with the sole exception that Hermione was sick of it. For every summer of her life, she and her parents had come to the same little villa on Avenue de Provence that had a neat little swimming pool and bougainvillea bushes all over the fence. There was a large upper-floor portico, where Hermione liked to sit and paint with watercolors, and windows with heavy blue shutters that they opened in the morning to admit the sun. Every morning, while the sky was still overcast, Hermione would go and jog up and down the avenue, until she was either tired or the sun came out, whichever occurred first. One could see the ocean clearly from the portico, though not very well from all places on the street, but nonetheless its omnipresent salty smell permeated everywhere.

Summer on the French Riviera was much like that in California, Hermione estimated, in an early effort to make her attitude towards the holiday more positive. This only halfway worked, because she was not dreadfully interested in seeing much more of California than the South Pole, but pretending to be somewhere else than France was rather comforting. At least, her reasoning was, French is not in the least the national language of California. Of course, a glimpse at any street sign or snatch of conversation she heard brought her back again to France, and that is why the project most indubitably failed.

For some, the place could be magical—for her parents, who tried unsuccessfully to forget work and the strain of the times by plastering smiles on their faces—but for Hermione, there was nothing she wished more than to go back to drab but glorious England. _If I want to ever go to the sea-side again_, she often thought savagely,_ I'll be damned if I'm not satisfied with our White Cliffs of Dover. _For, of course, even Dover was closer to Diagon Alley than Eze.

Most of her time, therefore, was spent in anticipation for her year at Hogwarts still ahead of her. Of course things would be different, she recognized—her professors would be different, Dumbledore (bless him!) was dead, she would no longer be in the class of Harry and Ron—but all these were just shadows, shadows which could not touch the joy she was sure she would feel once she was back. McGonagall was tickled pink to have her back, as were other professors, and her friends from younger classes. They had unanimously bestowed upon her the title of Honourary Head Girl, since Hermione would not accept the position formally out of respect to 7th year Ravenclaw Melanie Pear, who did deserve the honor as well.

And the Library! Oh, how she missed it! Just thinking of the Library made her smile. It had brought her such solace, such comfort, and she was returning to it! Madame Pince had sent a note of scathing approval when she heard that Hermione was returning, with appreciation that her best customer was coming back but also a warning to not let any more coffee stains be on the book covers. Hermione smiled at this; poor dear Madame Pince, the crotchety old woman who never new a minute's passion beyond an Austen novel. Hermione respected the woman more than most, felt mostly pity for her, though was a bit irritated as well, because the coffee incident had been a one-time accident in her 3rd year. Nonetheless, Hermione was eager to return.

Such anticipation for school was wasted on the lazy summer days in Eze, however. The sun never set earlier than eight, the heat was epitomical from twelve to five p.m., and Hermione was sick of sitting and pottering around. Watching her parents try and make themselves applicable to each other for the first time in months was even more disgusting; they were two completely different people at this point, and it was sickening to observe their half-hearted efforts at making up their past indifference.

She might have spent her entire month in Eze in gloom—and, granted, she was well on her way—had not a genteel new face danced upon the scene.

A young man rode by on his bike every day at about eleven, which was the approximate time that the sun arose from its lie-in, and then the man walked it back up the street at about five. What he looked like was a mystery to Hermione for a long while, because he was always very careful to wear an enormous straw hat that shielded his face from the sun and from her vision. At first, the only reason that Hermione cared was because he passed almost precisely at the same times every day, and he was therefore a good indication as to when elevenses might be consumed without being too early.

Inactivity had a terrible effect upon Hermione's waistline, she felt, because instead of being active and about her business so as to forget about food, on holiday she had so little to do that eating was a relief. It killed time faster than most other things, especially when she had to go out to eat. So, every time Piotr (for that was the young bicyclist's name, though she did not know it yet) went by in the morning, Hermione went into the house, put on her own hat, and went for a walk down the road to the nearest little café for a muffin and mid-morning iced coffee.

One morning, though, Hermione looked up from her sketchbook work with surprise to see the all-weather clock on the porch read 11:30, and she had not noticed the bicyclist come by as usual. She squinted at the sun, which was rising steadily overhead, sighed something to the accord of _oh well_, and rose to go into the house. However, as she stood, she glanced at the street, and saw a man and a bicycle standing in the shade of the house opposite. He was leaning on the old stone and mortar wall that was so common of the area, and he appeared to be looking at her.

His face was not a dull one, she could tell, though the glint of the near-noon sun prevented her from getting as good a look as she would have liked. His hat hung by its cord on his neck, which she saw was white, and his face was covered in a scrubby dark beard. That was all she could see, since his features were disguised in the cool, if ebbing, shadows.

Surprised, she raised her hand and waved.

Quick as a cat, the young man leaped on the bicycle and raced away, his giant coolie hat bobbing as he sped out of sight.

Hermione wondered for a brief moment if, perhaps, the young man were a wizard who recognized her, but she discarded this notion as improbable. Probably just the average gawking boy who had never seen a real woman he fancied before, she decided reasonably, but she never quite forgot about the incident.

Her immediate impression was to be slightly offended at his brazen display of admiration, but, after some thought, she realized he had not meant to be so conspicuous, and she forgave him his trespass. She supposed that she had caught his attention somehow as she sat there on the portico, as he went on his usual route, and brought him to a stop.

That was all right, she decided.

. . . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

The next morning, she was out there, again, as usual, though unusually expectant for the passing of the bicyclist—if he came round.

The time of eleven o'clock passed, without the advent of the bicyclist upon the scene. Hermione was about to go in, when, as if pedaling for his life, the young man raced down the little road, only to stop most obviously in front of the Granger villa.

She raised her hand again in greeting, which this time he imitated, tipping his hat back off of his head.

"_Bonjour!_" he called, though even Hermione could tell by his accent that he was not born a French speaker.

However, she humored him.

"_Bonjour_ to you too!" she replied, hoping that he spoke English. She had not realized how lonely he was until she found herself wishing desperately that he understood her native tongue. She chastised herself for letting her emotions get to her, but she nonetheless felt ultimately relieved when she heard him reply:

"Well, I suppose it takes one to know one, doesn't it?"

His accent was neither of Britain nor America, though his English was fluent, and he had BBC tones to his vowels. Hermione could not place it, but she knew now was not the time to really ask.

"I'm really not very good at French," Hermione replied in the affirmative, walking over to the railing of the portico so that she could get a better look at her caller.

"Truth be told, I'm not either."

At this point, he seemed not to know what to say, and his fingers began to touch the watch on his left hand idly.

"Where do you go every day?" Hermione asked him.

"Hm?" His eyes had drifted to his watch, and he looked up with the startlement of a rabbit that hears a car's motor.

"You ride past my front door every day; where do you go?"

"Oh, here and there. I go and pick up a coffee, a few sandwiches, and ride along the beach for a while until I get hungry. Then I have lunch and spend time people-watching, or writing. Then I come home."

Hermione, leaning against the railing of the portico, examined his face. It was a tad ruddy, with the exertion of riding so fast down the lane she expected, but aside from this and his scruffy beard, he had an elegant look about him. His eye were blue and reminiscent of Dumbledore's, or so she thought, and his hair was of a dirty blonde that was quite unkempt, but nonetheless attractive. His physique was lean, and the clothes he wore were neat—a light green linen button-down shirt and Bermuda shorts—while altogether appropriate for the climate. It was with appreciation that she noted his shirt was tucked in.

"Oh, so are you a writer?" she asked, wondering already if he had a girlfriend.

"Of music, yes."

Now Hermione had experienced many run-ins with writers over the years, and she had none too good an impression of them. Most of them were drab-looking girls of Hufflepuff, or who ought to have been in Hufflepuff, who had imaginations bigger than their experiences. For this reason, she primarily stayed away from female authors, except for a good cozy or Austen/Bronte when she felt depraved. However, this was the first time in her life that she had come across a composer, in any respect!

"How interesting," she said blandly, though she felt as though she deceived him with her understatement. His face revealed no emotion, however.

Then she decided to take a risk.

"Say, would you mind if I came with you? I've got a bicycle, and I'm simply bored to tears of the same things every day."

The bicyclist smiled warmly.

"Your company would be a pleasure, Miss…"

"Granger, Hermione Granger."

He stood a little straighter. "An honor to meet you, Miss Granger. I am Piotr Vzlomanniy, at your service."

_From the East! _Hermione thought,though she was slightly miffed. She was all too aware of the East-European presence in France, particularly of the gypsies. While stopping in Paris on the way south, her new camera had been stolen on the metro by two young girl of no greater age than twelve who had gotten on the subway, gone to the very back past her seat, and then seemingly decided to get off again, bumping her bag in the process and lifting her camera. Before she could do anything, the train's doors closed and they had left the station.

But, she reconciled, looking at him, he did not look like a gypsy at all. And he would never bother to introduce himself if he were one, she decided.

"Give me five minutes and I'll join you," she said in as comfortable a manner as possible, and she ducked into the house.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

As it were, Piotr was far from a gypsy; he, in fact, was quite well-off, for his compositions were for popular television shows, and he had no intention of ripping Hermione off. He was initially hurt by her caution, because he noticed she had taken off the jewelry she had been wearing on the portico when she joined him, but openly forgave her because, he noted, 'it is not good to start an acquaintanceship off on the wrong foot, as you English like to say'.

They did not do anything completely new to either of them that day; they followed the path that Piotr usually followed on his bike, stopping at Hermione's favorite café for some sandwiches and coffee, and settling at a nice place on the beach where there was a little bit of shade under some buildings. They talked a good deal, then got some tiramisu ice cream, and talked a good deal more.

He did most of the telling at first; he was of Russia, he said, trained at the Music Conservatory at St. Petersburg, and he guessed that he was not too shy of being a millionaire, though he had not reached his 28th birthday. The inheritance from his parents, he admitted, helped, though he was not proud of the business they had been engaged in—All his parents did, he said as he began to rant, was pluck the most lovely sheep from the flock to feed the avaricious appetites of the males, and then what did his parents do but deprave the sheep of their locks, over and over again, to finally kill them and the babes of the beasts that raped them, for no greater a purpose but food!

To which Hermione replied, she never had felt that way about mutton before.

To which he replied, with a sad twinkle in his luxurious blue eyes, that the sheep business was never very pleasant, and that he personally held all vegetarians—or at least those people that abstained from sheep's meat—near to holy.

But, he went on to say, he did not ever hold it against a person who ate mutton, but instead was merely an instrument of reform through the role of an inform(er).

She attested later that it was 'love at first sight' that prevented her from leaving his side that day. As it were, rationality was more lost upon her than ever before in her life, and she was garrulous. It was a while before she realized this, however, for Piotr was an excellent listener.

Mostly, at first, she talked about how much she hated the French, and the French Riviera, and about her parents, who were more co-workers now than husband and wife. Then she talked about Ron and Harry a lot, whom she thought of as brothers, but with whom she was frustrated because neither of them wanted to go back to school with her after their year 'abroad'—she at least had the sense to remain vague on that point—and how, in fact, Ron was desperate to marry her, and she didn't very well feel like settling down yet before she was even twenty (by law).

And Piotr said he understood completely, a girl he had grown up alongside of and saved from death somewhat lately (he gave no specifics) wanted to marry him at this time last year—and he had no intention of doing so; he thought of her as a sister, no more, and she was not the right person for him.

Then, as the storm that had been building inside her finally quelled, she let him talk more, because he was so foreign and so interesting (and, she only half-admitted, so wonderful to look at) and so he talked about his own life. He had been traveling a good deal for the past three years, and had seen all of Europe that one ought to see in a lifetime. He had been in America for six months until the first of this month, he said, to see what he could of it, but he felt ill at home there, and come back just before he needed to apply for a visa.

It struck her at this point that he was genuinely of excellent intellect, so much so that it only seemed natural to have a conversation with him. She needed to explain nothing; he understood all the emotions she poured out, all the words she used to describe them, and no matter how fast the feelings gushed out of her mouth, he comprehended. It was exhilarating in a way she never had experienced—a contemporary who was on the same intellectual plane as her. Of course she fell; it would have been silly of her not to do so.

They stayed on the beach-front until it started to get chilly, and then Piotr asked if she would like to go to dinner. With him? Of course she would! Only, of course, her enthusiasm was more subdued than that. Piotr was kindly, though, and they rode their bikes to a little hidden vegetarian restaurant that, in all their years of coming to Eze, Hermione and her family never had visited.

Piotr had infallible table manners, which was a revelation to Hermione; usually she dealt with Harry and Ron, who were full-throttle gluttons and unashamed of showing it no matter where they were eating. They indulged in a good wine, and then lazily Piotr rode home with her.

They kissed just briefly at the front door of the Granger villa, when Hermione assured him that she would be free tomorrow, waiting for him to ride by at about ten. He seemed pleased at the prospect.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

He showed up the next day, and the next, and the next. Needless to say, Piotr made life more enjoyable for Hermione, despite the location, and it was not longer than a week before he asked her to visit his home.

She knew, of course, what that would probably entail, and packed her favorite little magic bag with a number of necessaries that she felt she would probably need.

It was not until after dinner at an elegant fish restaurant that he drove them both (in his Lamborghini, no less!) to his little villa that was not more than a few miles from her parents'.

She was impressed by it only insomuch as she was impressed with fairly the whole lot of other villas on the French Riviera; it was not a deviation from the normal stone outer walls, tropical flora, stucco and iron affairs that were scattered among the cliffs.

What did impress her was the politeness of her escort, through all of the proceedings.

Making love with Victor Krum, she had been haphazard and naïve, not really understanding what he was doing and why. He was fitted for a much older girl than she had been at the time. With Ron, she felt it was the opposite—after Krum, she had done 'research' enough to know what spots to touch, etc.—and Ron had no bloody clue.

Piotr, on the other hand, provided just the perfect balance of give-and-take. At some points he was fierce, strong, and animalistic, but at others he became gentle again.

What could have ended their relationship instead made it stronger.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

The Granger family was leaving as a unit one week before Hermione was to head back to school, and Piotr said he was still staying for a bit longer yet.

It was a bitter parting, though he promised to write to the address Hermione gave to him (Hermione's parents in London, who would forward them via owl, as they did with all her other mail). When asked what he would be doing over the course of the year, Piotr said that he was going up north to teach at a private school, so it might be some time before he got around to writing her. She said that was all right; she was going to school herself, as she had told him numerous times.

Out of curiosity, he asked her where she was attending school. She told him vaguely that it was a girl's finishing school in Switzerland. He nodded sadly, and replied that he was going to go teach up in a little out-of-the-way school in the north. Hermione asked for its name, but he dodged the question, saying that it was an all-boys school with a focus on Rugby, and they were not very good at it.

In any case, they did part, after a passionate night that was a climax of all their passionate nights, and soon Hermione was on the train to Hogwarts again, a little sadder to be going than she had expected a month prior.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_It may be assumed that instead of it being A Christmas Party that this chapter anticipates, it is instead going back to Hogwarts. As in the ballet, where Clara and Fritz argue and therefore make the party's arrival less than they expected, this chapter focuses on Hermione's eagerness to get to Hogwarts and then an inter-personal occurrence that makes it somewhat bittersweet. _

_Do review, I really am hoping for a good reception of this story!_


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